


walk the streets just to breathe air

by marriottsmushrooms



Series: maybe it's inevitable [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, James and George have a moment, M/M, Pls read part número 1, george is still sad but he's getting better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 11:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marriottsmushrooms/pseuds/marriottsmushrooms
Summary: George aches all over. He's physically and mentally exhausted, but the sobs that rack his body never seem to end. Everything hurts. His chest aches so deeply, that sick kind of pain that comes with grief. George doesn't know what he's grieving, the death of his parents' support, perhaps? His head burns, his throat stings, and all of his limbs feel heavy. Too heavy, he doesn't want to carry them any more.





	walk the streets just to breathe air

**Author's Note:**

> Ello ello Stephen tries fan #1 back with some radical content to get ur limbs moving and your hips a'shaking
> 
> Much requested part 2 to my last work where George is fucking sad 
> 
> So read that if you haven't
> 
> Have a great day, week, month or year and I'll see y'all later bye

George leaves the house with a sad smile on his face, reluctantly hugging his parents, and grabbing his coat.

"I'll see you when I see you, then, love," His mother smiles, gently squeezing his cheek. "Do try and find a girl, yeah? I don't want you to be lonely. The sooner you settle down, the better, hmm?"

"Yeah," George nods. He slides his hands into his pockets and feels for his phone. He knows exactly what he is going to do as soon as he leaves the house.

"That's my lad," his father grins, clapping him on the back, hard. George still feels it when he pulls his hand away. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, son, but you better find a girl and settle down. Don't want any of this gay shit, alright?"

"It was-"

His father's tone quickly turns hostile, words spat out like venom. "I don't give a fuck if it was a joke or not, George. My son is not, and will never be, one of them. You'll find a girl, and you'll get married, and you'll raise a family, and then you won't be a disgrace. You carry on with this shit, it's not going to go down well, you got it?"

George looks at his mother. Her expression is blank, lifeless, almost. She doesn't look at him. She was the only person George thought would even be a little understanding. Now, she won't fight for him anymore.

George nods, feeling sick. His mind is too conflicted, and he knows he needs to get out of there before he throws up on the carpet.

"Get out of my house," he snarls, and George does just that, backing out the door with tears gathering on his waterline. It slams shut in front of him and he jumps a little. He stands alone in the driveway, eyes glossy as his house grows blurry. He blinks the tears away, he doesn't want anyone to see him like this.

He fumbles to get his phone out of his pocket, his hands shaking. He needs Will. He needs to hear his voice, just so he knows that someone cares about him. He turns away from the building he had grown up in, and makes his way down the road aimlessly.

He feels so empty. It feels like there's too much air in his chest, like there are cavities of nothingness that used to be filled with love, with care, with the safety and reassurance of his parents, if anything went wrong. But now, he never wants to look back, not if he can help it. George isn't sure how much more of his dad's lecturing, and his mum's worried eyes he can take before he breaks.

Will's phone goes straight to voicemail. George presumes it must be off, or it's run out of charge, but now he's stood on the side of a road with no idea what to do. He tries again, hoping something will change. It doesn't.

His chest feels tight, his heart feels like it's pushing against his ribs. He feels sick, and panicky, and his head aches. His throat constricts and starts to hurt, and then the tears come thick and fast.

George doesn't know what they're for. Tears of frustration, perhaps? Frustration because his parents won't listen to him, won't accept him, frustration because Will isn't picking up his phone, and Will _always_ picks up his phone, so why now? Frustration because he doesn't know what to do, where to go, who to talk to. He needs to talk to someone. He knows that if he lets his mind run wild like this, without having someone to help him keep between the lines, that he'll go off track and end up driving himself insane.

His whole body feels tense. Times like these in the past, Will would hold him close and sink his hands into George's hair. James would sit George down, and then take his hands, looking at him firmly, and talking to him about whatever. Alex would let him cry, let George have his way, he'd let George sob until the hoodie of his shoulder was soaked through. He'd let George cause him pain, let George squeeze his hands, grasp his arms, pull his hair whilst he cried, but he'd never let George do the same to himself. None of them would.

George lets out a small sob as he looks up at the road to the side of him. He pictures himself, blissfully happy, sees the boy in all the family photos come to life before his eyes. He sees himself at his youngest, stumbling in the yard, hands out in front in case he falls. He always falls. He sees himself grow up a bit, holding fistfuls of crisp snow one December morning, hands covered by his dad's gloves, way too big for him. He sees himself on his first day in secondary school, all toothy grins and a puffed out chest. He sees himself kissing that one girl there, the girl who's name he doesn't even remember. He remembers leaving, moving into his apartment, with new people, new friends, arms full of bags. If he thinks back, he can recall the feeling of his mother kissing his cheek, wishing him well.

Now he's here, eyes full of tears, lost, feeling sick. He didn't think it would hurt this bad.

He calls the next person he can think of, James. George bites at his lip, letting out a shaky breath.

"Alright, mate?" James asks, clearly cheery. George doesn't want to dampen his mood, but he feels like he doesn't have a choice.

"Are you free?" George murmurs. He hears James shuffle.

"Yeah, I'm just sat at home, with Al."

"Hi, George!" He hears Alex say, muffled background noise. George lets out a sniffle, and smiles.

"What's going on, George?"

"I need you to come and get me," He whimpers quietly. He waits for James's reply, letting out another juddering breath, which he tries to keep quiet. His hands are shaking.

"Okay, where are you?" James asks, and George can hear him fumbling around on the other side of the call.

"I'll text you it," George murmurs.

"Alright. I'm on my way, okay? Just let me know where to go, and I'll be there."

George hums in agreement.

-

He recognises James' car from the moment it comes grumbling down the street. It's an old piece of junk, but it gets James around. He pulls up in front of George, and leans over the passenger seat to unlock the door.

Wordlessly, George climbs in, and sits there, hands in his lap and looking down. He feels like he doesn't belong here, feels like he's dampened the mood a little.

"I've got you now, George," James speaks softly.

George looks up at him, and James carefully cups George's face in his hand. He smiles sadly, and wipes away the stray tears that hang off George's skin .

"You're alright."

  
George directs James quietly to Will's parents' house, where he's sure Will must be. If he was home, he would have picked up.

George watches the city go by around him, although his vision is blurry and his mind is crowded, and his chest aches, the people who walk by, couples, families, just people, all oblivious to his pain, distract him, momentarily. He wonders what they're all feeling. If they're in pain. Why are they walking? Where have they been, where are they going? As George catches one of the lampposts begin to glow, and as the evening settles, turning the sky darker and the air colder, George wonders what he's supposed to do now. James places his hand on George's thigh, and only then does George notice that the car has stopped.

George rubs at his tired eyes. That's their house alright.  
"How did you-"

"I've been here before," James murmurs, pulling his hand away to lean back into his seat. "And look, that's Will's car."

It is. It's the car that George knows back to front, the car that dropped him off at his parents' this morning, the car that Will had kissed him over the gearstick in, murmured that he'd be fine, and the car that George now can't help but want to hate, for taking him somewhere that has made him feel like _this_.

"George?" James murmurs quietly. George turns to him, and hums. "I don't know what happened today, yeah, but whatever it was, you know you're not alone. You know you never will be. I've got you, and so has Alex, and Will, and everyone else, yeah? You ever need any of us, you just say, alright?" George smiles ever so slightly, the ache in his chest somehow growing, but he nods. "I love you, George. We all do."

"Yeah," George breathes silently, but James hears him. George leans over, and hugs James awkwardly. There's not a lot of space, but James knows it means a lot.

"Now you get in there and you find Will, yeah? Talk to him, George, and cry if you want to. You don't have to be ashamed."

George nods, turning away and pulling at the door handle. It eases open. He turns back quickly, one foot on the concrete.

"Thank you for being there for me, James. I love you."

"Yeah, I love you too."

  
George rings the doorbell, and hears it echo inside the house. He doesn't want to disturb them. Not now, when the day's havoc is beginning to end, and calm is beginning to settle, but what is done is done, and George stands helplessly in front of the door. He feels small.

The door opens soon after, and George makes eye contact with Will's father, who's eyes soften upon seeing George.

"Who is it, love?" George hears Will's mum ask. Her voice makes his heart ache a little. He sniffles, and wipes at his eyes.

"Come on, George," Will's dad beckons quietly, wrapping an arm around George's shoulder and pulling him inside.

"I'm sorry if I-" George starts, shoulders heavy and eyebrows furrowed. He doesn't feel at all alright here. Maybe it's the knowledge that Will's parents know he's no longer their son's best friend, but his boyfriend, and it's not a secret any more.

"No, George. Don't worry about it, you're fine."

"George?" That's Will, and George knows its Will, because he knows just how Will says his name. He says it in his own way, and George loves it.

He says it when George is still awake at four in the morning, and he stumbles out of their room, duvet clutched around his shoulders and dragging across the floor. He says it as he buries his tired face into George's hair and breathes in, and then mumbles how he doesn't like sleeping alone. George can't help but follow him back, can't resist when Will says his name like that.

He says it when George is pressed against him, all breathy and whiney as his fingers twist into George's hair. He says it whilst his toes are curled and his eyes are screwed up. He says it whilst looking into George's eyes, and smoothing his clammy palm down George's warm skin.

He says it when he's looking down at George, his fingers digging into George's wrists to keep him in place. Says it when George is the one with his eyes shut, and George is the one who's whining. He says it, slow and sultry against George's lips, one hand pinning George's arms down, the other drawing light patterns onto his skin, grazing his jaw, dragging fingertips down his neck.

He says it when they're out of milk, or something equally as important, and he pokes his head out from behind the fridge door, whining George's name. George always gets it. How could he say no?

He says it when George gets ill, when he's snivelling into tissues and adding them to the ever growing mountain. Will coos his name pitifully, hand combing through George's hair to get it out of his face. He kisses the side of George's temple, and hurries back when George asks him to fetch something.

He says it when he needs George's help, says it when he's broken something, says it when he wants George to spent time with him, says it when he needs looking after, but right now, George thinks the latter applies more to him.

He loves the way Will says his name, but not when he's worried.

Will's father slips away wordlessly, and George is thankful, as awful as he thinks it sounds. He needs Will.

"George," Will repeats, and hurries over, cupping George's face in his hands. He shushes the sniffling boy gently. George hiccups, his hand flying up to clutch on to Will's wrist. "It's alright, I've got you."

Now that he's safe, and George knows he's safe, he lets the dam walls break. He sobs heavily, clutching on to Will and never breaking eye contact. Will holds him gently, letting George sob into his shoulder, and clutch onto his shirt.

George aches all over. He's physically and mentally exhausted, but the sobs that rack his body never seem to end. Everything hurts. His chest aches so deeply, that sick kind of pain that comes with grief. George doesn't know what he's grieving, the death of his parents' support, perhaps? His head burns, his throat stings, and all of his limbs feel heavy. Too heavy, he doesn't want to carry them any more.

Will's hand sinks into the hair at the back of his head, and George just wants to lie with Will for a bit, have Will hold him, talk to him, ask what happened so that George can tell someone, so that he isn't alone in this. He knows he never was.

Then, he hears footsteps and he knows all too well that they belong to Will's mum. George feels his heart ache further. He wishes his mother would be a bit more like her. He lifts his pounding head, and looks at her with teary eyes.

"Oh, my darling," she softly hums, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around the two of them the best she can. George wallows in the warmth, and he finally feels some kind of peace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> prompts prompts prompts prompts prompts prompts prompts


End file.
